Faint Glimmerings
by s2lou
Summary: And so I'll take your words–beautiful words, precious words–cut them into garlands and orbs and santa-shaped pictures, light a thousand candles, and hang them on the tree. Merry Christmas.


**A/N****: And so, yes, I managed to post in time. Christmas presents from me to you–to those who asked for them, and those who read them now. –bows– **

**Prompts were fun and original and I tried to write up to them. (Christmas stories are so darn hard to write.) But there they are–less drabbles than oneshots, really–a full assortment of them–about Christmases away from home, love (literally) blind, candles and wrappers, stalkers, ramen stores, masquerades, schoolwork, Christmas ghosts, wishes made, figs, carriages, in-waiting in bookshops, and bootleg. xD yeah.**

**Pairings: KaitoAoko (obviously, meh), ShinRan, SatoTakagi.**

**Diclaimer–I own, err… some Christmas spirit. Tucked away in a drawer somewhere. And Santa-shaped cookies. Not the cast, anyway. –bows away at Gosho-sensei's admirable work–**

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**Faint Glimmerings**

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_'… and with only very faint glimmerings of humanity from the principals, and in spite of how hopeless it all seems, the miracle of Christmas occurs, right on schedule. Just like it does every year.'_

Connie Wills–in _Miracle (and other Christmas Stories)_ which has greatly inspired at least one of these drabbles.

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To Begin With

_(For __DireSphinx__, whose prompt was 'Great men die heroes. Don't be a great man. Do better than me. Be a good man.' And that CALLED for some Touichi, whom I've missed writing anyway. And yes, I am (most painfully) aware that this scheme has been covered a zillion times over, but that doesn't mean I can't 1) have my own try, and, 2) shuffle the deck a little bit. And it was the perfect line to begin, so I gave in to temptation. Meh.)_

Touichi is dead; to begin with.

For some reason, though, Kaito is completely unfazedwhen his ten-years-dead father shows up on Christmas Eve in his living-room. This may be due to the fact he's sitting cross-legged on the chimney rug and thinking up methods to trick Santa into tripping and drop his bagload of presents in front of the tree.

"You know," his father says matter-of-factly, leaning against the chimneypiece as though he wasn't see-through at all, "there are better ways to spend Christmas Eve than to wait for Santa all night long."

Kaito's mouth twitches, and he doesn't divert his intent gaze from the fire he doesn't remember making earlier in the evening. "Yeah. Everybody knows Santa doesn't exist. Nor do ghosts."

His father chuckles, the way he used to back when Kaito was eight and Touichi pulled ten-yen coins from his son's ear. "When you were younger you were more gullible."

Kaito looks up. "Should I be?"

His father is a little younger than he remembers him. He looks lanky, too, when during their last year together he remembers his mother teasing him about putting on weight. It makes him smile for some reason; it can now.

'TOUSAN!"

Eight-years-old Kaito runs straight past him and in Touichi's arms. Twenty-years-old Kaito blinks–it's a strange sensation to have a younger yourself running through you, if anything–and backs onto the couch. This is a night of wonders.

"You should be in bed, Kaito," Touichi scolds, picking up his kid with a soft look–the kind Kaito had almost forgotten, and it's good to remember it–a warm, gently warm fire in his chest. "Now where's your mother anyway?"

"Maybe," his mother says from the bedroom door, "you could tuck your son in bed yourself," and Kaito's chest widens some more with yet another breath, because she's wearing the apron with the yellow ducks–the one he distinctly remembers from childhood, though whiter and more blurred at the edges, and which has since gotten lost among too many cardboard boxes.

"Cute, weren't we," purrs a voice at his elbow, and he turns to find KID sprawled on the sofa next to him.

Kaito blinks. Schizophrenia now.

"It's good, though," the white-clad thief–_himself–_says almost nonchalantly, lacing his fingers together behind his head with one of–_his–their–_trademark grins. He frowns at the fireplace behind the monocle. "Lacks warmth here."

He's pretty sure there was a fire there not two minutes ago.

"Er," Kaito says.

KID flashes a smirk at him, the kind he remembers from the mirror. The kind he gives Nakamori-keibu when he's about to trick the whole Task Force in a gum trap. The kind he has when he knows something the others don't. "Y'know, the best way to trick Santa is _not_ to turn him into roast."

"Er," Kaito says again, and is–almost–certain this is a dream, because he's never at a lack for words. Never really.

"You should read the classics," KID adds, flippantly. "It might lighten up evenings like these. Ever heard Christmas Eve was a family time?"

"No," Kaito says, and turns to look at his father and mother, but the fireside, by the bookshelf, is empty now. It feels like a white blade running through his chest, cold and icy-damp, and the chimneypiece never looked so hard, unmoving marble.

"Letter D," says KID, apropos of nothing, then– "Aah, there she comes. Merry Christmas," he grins, and disappears without so much as a pop. Kaito doesn't even blink this time.

"Aoko?"

She looks–older, somehow, face thinner, and he's never seen those blue clothes on her, never seen this softness on the corners of her mouth–and she smiles and doesn't answer. She points, instead. Vaguely, he wonders–there wasn't a fire in the hearth one minute ago, was there?–and looks over.

At first he thinks his father and eight-year-old himself are back, all over again.

But his dad had a moustache, hadn't he, and his hair wasn't so wild, and the kid in his arms certainly isn't himself. He has his eyes and his smile, but the features–are disturbingly like those of the not-quite-girl standing beside the couch with her lips twitching at the sight.

He watches, flabbergasted for a second–and this, this isn't one of his father's tricks, it's one of his, one of those he's thought up, the plastic duck and the ring of roses, and the child squeals and clutches his father's neck, nearly strangling him, and then, just then, he wants to laugh.

(He does laugh, in fact, a deep-throated chuckle he hardly hears and doesn't even remember.)

Will wonders ever cease, he thinks wryly (and the answer's No, rumbling deep inside).

There're candles on the table–everything just as it ought to be–and humming wafting in from the kitchen, and suddenly he's a little too breathless and desperate and he's almost certain it shouldn't be like this, it wasn't written like this, was it?

"Choices we make," his father's voice murmurs in his ear, and then something else, a whisper so low he scarcely makes it out, but when he does his eyes burn.

Aoko is smiling and shaking her head, joining her husband and son on the hearthrug, and Kaito chuckles again, once, low and amused, and Kaito wakes up.

_(For those who never read it, this was a shameless makeshift utilisation of Charles Dickens' 'A Christmas Carol', which is a masterpiece and a Christmas must-read both for those who never did (shame on you!) and those who already did. It's got everything a good story needs–ghosts, chains, grapevines, turkeys, time skips, and a wonderful Christmas-worthy ending for us all Scrooges.)_

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This Town Is All We'll Ever Have

_(For iLOVEtoREADduhXD (dots probably get erased)__, who asked for 'Kaito being a teacher.' Though the idea in itself was awesome, it struck me brain-dead for about two days. And then I read those two great omakes of Holistuba Gakuen's, and I realized that Aoko should be a teacher, too. Which somehow evolved onto this. AU, then.)_

"You sure look like you could take a break," Kaito said, grinning widely and suggestively enough to make an amoeba blush.

Aoko levelled him with a Look. The kind that clearly said, 'Go bother someone else or I'll strike you dead with this hammer, premeditated homicide on a colleague or not.' Kaito looked unfazed. "I can't," she said, turning the Look onto the pile of copies on the desk. "I've got two classes' worth copies left to correct before tomorrow, three…"

"So what? So do I," Kaito said, shrugging nonchalant shoulders. "You don't see me dawdling around the office after seven at night."

"That's because you're too lazy to work correctly," Aoko said, feeling the migraine rise with each word. It wasn't exactly true, either. Kaito was probably one of the most loved teachers around Beika, and anyway his students didn't give a damn when or where he returned their copies to them–still, the Modern Languages teacher always finished them off by the end of the week, though no one ever saw him working on them.

Japanese Literature was different, she thought furiously, glaring at the red-streaked copy before her. It was complex enough to confuse a lot of first-years out of their wits, and to make third-years fidget in their seats when she returned the copies to them. They were serious kids, but they lacked practise and time.

If only she had more than three hours a week to work with them–

Kaito was prattling on. "–and I've got to deal the 2-a, which are our worse lot this year. D'you know that last time I gave them a French version to turn in, Wataru-kun translated 'Avoir the nerfs à fleur de peau' as 'I have nerves at flower of skin'?"

"I didn't," Aoko ground out between clenched teeth. "Wouldn't you just let me work?"

"Honestly, Aoko, it's Christmas break," Kaito said seriously–though by his own standards. "You can do this later. There are ten days left to work on these," he patted the pile of copies comfortingly and picked up her red pen from the tablet, twirling it expertly between his fingers. "And I'm asking for an hour of your time."

By this time she was rubbing her palms against her face, and she looked at him through a veil of half-parted fingers. "… coffee."

"Coffee," he nodded sagely. "Or ramen," he added, as though struck by an afterthought. "There's this great ramen vendor just two blocks down, and they make such a grand coffee. And I've asked them to keep us seats."

Probably not so much of an afterthought.

She glanced at the stack of copies again. Go, they said to her. Go, go, you've liked him far too long to refuse. You can work on us later. You still have ten days left. And if he monopolizes you during the whole of these ten days, which you know he will, you can still do it at the last minute, during the last evening, even if you're up till midnight, and you'll be tired as hell the next morning, but heck, girl, it's Christmas–

"Shut up," she moaned against her palms.

"Sorry?"

And the fact that you start to anthropomorphize things–a stack of copies, of all things–is a very clear symptom of overwork, she thought.

"Nothing." She looked up at him. He was mimicking her poise, elbows spread on the edge of the desk, chin pillowed in his hands. She glared half-heartedly–they'd worked together for two years now, and her capacity to irritate faced with his antics was losing steam. "If I say no, will you leave me alone?"

Now that was an off-with-their-heads version of his grin she hadn't ever seen. "… very likely not."

"Fine," she groaned, feeling all her defences seeping out. He had cracked them open faster than anyone before. "But you're paying." She turned, groping blindly for her coat, which he handed to her. "… thanks."

He was already arranging her scarf around her neck.

"'S not a date," she mumbled, the cold touch of his fingers burning against her cheeks. "It's a–friendly outing between colleagues. Got it?"

"Sure thing, ma'am," he grinned, and buttoned up her collar for her. She let his hands linger for half a second more than was far necessary, then slapped them away. "Ow."

"You deserve it," she said, and swept past with another dark look at the stack of copies. Stay, she told them sternly. If any one's missing when I'm back I'm burning the whole pack and making my students re-take the test all over again.

"Coming, then?" (And Kaito was already at the door and headed for the elevator, looking back at her in silent query.)

She gave the copies one last Look and caught up with him, jogging half-rapidly as the elevator doors swished open. "Yeah," she said, and didn't pull back when their knuckles brushed all the way down to the ramen store.

_(Looks silly, but I've gone surprisingly soft over those two as high school teachers. –Usually, in the great High School Fanfiction Theme, the heroes are students, not teachers, aren't they? I like the change.– So you might expect to see more of them from me. x3)_

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Everything That Comes First

_(For __ami-chan,__ whose prompt was 'Just let go of the damn cases for a minute, Shinichi, and write a mystery novel.' Obviously it's Ran who's talking. And I was hard onto writing Lawyer's Problem's last chapter back then, so I thought I'd make it an epilogue to it. A year into the aftermath, they still haven't found any kind of equilibrium, but they're making a way, surely.)_

In retrospect, it was the Thing Not To Say.

And The Thing Not To Do.

However annoying Shinichi's fangirls still were, they had gotten worse since his book had been published–and, it seemed, had expanded over the weeks. That may have had something to do with the bold-lettering headlines that had accompanied it, and the enthusiastic letter Yuusaku had sent his son, saying how good was the book, and he hadn't understood who the murderer was until page one hundred and two. Ran had laughed, but Shinichi had looked delighted.

(Apparently that was high praise.)

It would have been fine, though, to deal with the daily post and the women fangasming all over Shinichi's front door (those visits, though, had tended to rarefy after Ran had been the one who opened the door five times over in quick succession), but Special Signings three times a week during Christmas season was going a little overboard.

The worst, of course, Ran thought as she looked disgustedly at the gold-lettering 'Kudo Shinichi Special Signing of His Book For Christmas Eve' panel and then at the queue, were the middle-aged women. With toddlers. High school girls Shinichi knew how to handle, and so did she–they'd both had to hide from them to lunch alone often enough during their first high school year, before the Conan fiasco.

But family women–and family did not only mean those who had kids, but those who bought thirty copies of the book for their second- and third-degree cousins and insisted on having them all dedicated–who looked genuinely happy to be in a crowded shopping mall three days from Christmas and therefore assumed that everybody else must be, too, were extremely difficult to deal with.

There was one just before her in the queue, with a twin stroller and a five-year-old in her arms (and obviously another one on its way), talking animatedly to Shinichi, and Ran's feet were starting to go to sleep.

Shinichi looked absolutely exhausted, though (suits him well, she thought ferociously) and hadn't even noticed her over the stroller and the toddler's arms, which were frantically waving and pulling at his mother's hair. Ran fiddled with her bags, switching them over to her other hand.

"… just wanted to tell you how delighted I was with Chapter Four…"

C'mon, Ran thought impatiently, and stared at the boy, who was looking at her over his mom's shoulder and sticking out his tongue. C'mon, c'mon, don't you see there are other people waiting in line…

"… wonderful talk," the woman concluded, bestowed a motherly smile on Shinichi, picked up stroller and manifold bags, and finally got out of the way.

Ran bit back a laugh as Shinichi's eyes veiled just a second before he took the book she handed him, not looking up. "Good evening," he recited mechanically, voice strained and hoarse, and opened the book to the inner cover. "And what is your name?"

"Mouri," she said sweetly. "Mouri Ran. I am sure that rings a bell."

He looked up so fast she thought his neck would cramp.

"… ah." He looked at her for a second, as though wondering whether to laugh or cry. Then he broke into a smile, and started to write. "Indeed. And what brings you here, Mouri-san? Christmas shopping?"

"Indeed," she echoed him, carefully. "I was looking for a Christmas present for my boyfriend–"

He chuckled, low. "Three days from Christmas? One would think you would manage it earlier–"

"–and I happened to catch sight of this signing. I had no idea it took place here and today. I figured it would be a nice… surprise… for him. He so loves mysteries."

"He certainly will be," he said, writing some more and very pointedly not looking at her, but his voice was laughing. "Surprised." He handed the book back to her. "Please enjoy the read. I have been delighted to meet you."

"Same," Ran said, and opened the book as soon as she was far enough to avoid any sarcastic remarks when he came home.

'Firstly, that was pretty low,' said the dedicace.

'Secondly, I'm sorry I didn't tell you there was a signing today. I know how much you hate them, and trust me, I don't like them either. You weren't the one who sat and smiled like an idiot for two hours here. Thirdly, thank you–and please, please, be home when I come back. I have this idea we'll need each other then. In the less perverted possible sense.

'And lastly, marry me.'

Ran grinned, and made her way through the crowd, rather uncaring which exit she found and which train she took. Whichever way she went, she figured, at the end she would find home.

_(And with this, Lawyer's Problem is officially ended. –Gosh, that feels weird.– I thought something was amiss with my actual fic ending, and this put things right. Thanks, ami–hope it was what you expected. x3)_

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Theirs Is An Almost-Normal Eve

_(For __Girl Wonder 2005__, whose prompt was 'a TakagiXSatou one. The old married bickering kind.' And I realized I had NEVER written any TakagiXSatou fics. And then __ami-chan__ got me stuck on their last case–no, not the KID one (though it's awesome), the one before that. You know which one I mean–and that meddled with something else and ended up into this. AU, again.)_

He comes home late on the 24th.

She goes to meet him when she hears the door open, all worry and fear seeping out to make place for irritation–this is not only Christmas Eve, it's their sixth wedding anniversary, and the idiot has to be late, of all days in the year–and when he looks up at her from unbuckling his shoes he looks awkward and knowing exactly what is befalling him.

Her anger deflates, faced with his puppy-dog look, and she settles for crossing her arms and huffing at him instead. "You're late."

"I know," he says hurriedly. "Nakamori-keibu insisted on us touring the Magpies and Crows bar again–he suspects the Kuroba boy of being part of the system and you know how obsessed he can be and–

How polite he is, she thinks fondly. Though of Japanese parents, she was born in America, but he landed there hardly ten years ago. All his education was Japanese in the first place, and that still fazes her somehow, even after nine years' acquaintance and six years' marriage.

"You need to have yourself moved to the Crime section," she says instead, and leads the way into the dark living-room. "Bootleg can be awfully dangerous, and Megure-keibu offered you a place in his section not long ago."

"The Crime section isn't much less dangerous than the bootleg one, Miwako-chan," he protests. "And Nakamori-keibu is a good–oh."

She looks, when he does, with a sense of growing despair because the candles have almost all burnt out, and dinner must be cold. The silver forks and knives twinkle at her ominously in the near-gold beam.

"Oh," he says, not quite coherently. "You made this."

"–you were late," she begins, voice sticking out halfway as his arms come around her and his fingers are in her short hair and he's whispering thankyouthankyouthankyou in her ear and she hugs him back, because that's about as affectionate as he'll dare ever be, and it's all right.

I love you, she doesn't say, and he doesn't chuckle, a self-deprecating chuckle, and does not reply, I love you too, Miwako-chan.

"You know," she says to him later, when they're halfway through the (cold) main course (but it doesn't matter, because he's back home and she's always hated to be the housewife who waits for the husband, but.)–"I think I'd make a better policeman than you do. And you'd make a better housewife than I," she adds fondly, as he juggles with forks and nearly drops the roast. "Or not."

He blushes, and smiles, and takes out a bottle of champagne. (It's probably illegal, after Prohibition, but Nakamori-keibu must have given it to him and told him gruffly to enjoy his Christmas Eve, and Wataru must have protested and blushed whenever Miwako's name was pronounced and finally taken it home under his colleagues' cheers.)

"You thought about that," she says, and goes to fetch two long flutes in the kitchen cupboard. When she comes back he's grappling with the cork.

It pops off with a sharp sound that surprises them both and blows up sky-high, and makes him nearly topple off his chair. He catches it, though, before it touches the ground, and manages to keep the bottle in its upright position on the table. She chuckles to herself–it's strange, even now, that he should be so clumsy in cases and so much not in others.

She lays the flutes on the tablecloth and he fills them neatly and gives her one and tells her about his day with the Force, Nakamori-keibu insisting in touring the suspected bar and near-attacking that Kuroba boy who keeps coming back in the conversations and, it seems, loves to annoy the inspector, until they joined forces to send him back to celebrate Christmas with his daughter.

She tells him about her day, and while he listens, carefully and silent, she thinks how lucky they are to still be together, how lucky they are that he wasn't sent to war, how lucky she is to have him and he to have her, how lucky they are to be able to celebrate this together, tonight.

She doesn't quite know what it is they celebrate, whether it's Christmas (although she never was much of a religious person, and he's a Shintoist) whether it's their wedding anniversary (but their wedding ran bang in the war and it's not much of a happy memory), whether it's not, right now right here, the miracle of having found each other and having a place to come back to at the end of the day.

They celebrate, trivially, immaterially, little, precious things.

_(And that makes exactly 777 words, so I'll stop here. xD This is actually a small preview of a chaptered fic which should come up for New Year. These two probably won't appear in it–well, Takagi may, but quickly really–but it was nice writing the drabble/fic/oneshot/whatever in this universe, which I really like. Look out for it x3)_

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The Stowaway (or: shunned from your eyes, from your lips)

_(For __Halfling Rogue__, who asked for a fic around the song 'The Stowaway', from the Doctor Who soundtrack. Having neither heard the song before nor watched the show–heck, I don't even have a TV–I was able to work on this pretty freely… but I wanted to write something that wouldn't immediately come to mind when reading the song's lyrics, so I altered the style and added a little twist to it. AU, definitely.)_

_(once i found a stowaway)_

There is music–fast-beating music like pulsing heartbeats, and quick-time tapping heels like ticking seconds on polished wood. There is music–and water–and the quick aspiration of night and dancing and the rocking of waves. One-music-two and ba-heartbeats-bump and tick-seconds-tock like the same throb-throb-throbbing that reaches out in the veins and pounds through the mind, an alcoholic drought.

Tonight, she is a Butterfly.

_(upon my ship on christmas day)_

Tonight, she is a Butterfly, and when a hand curls around hers and pulls her–gently, with a gentleness that seems to rhyme with the beat of the music, slow and pulsing, like blood, no movement inadequate or out of place–she turns without surprise, without fear.

He is a Bird, whichever, blue eyes showing through the slits of the long mask, black-streaked. She is breathless for a second–breathless and desperate and a little too close to water, close enough to trip–and looks from the bridge of the nose to the firm lines of the mouth, which immediately ease into a lazy, amused smile.

(She feels it should remind her of something (but it doesn't (it doesn't (it doesn't.))))

_(he just smiled and said_

_'come here, let's dance.')_

One, two, the steps of their dancing go, ba-bump, ba-bump, three, four, tick tock tick tock tick.

He dances well–perfect, she thinks–and when she asks why and how he smiles some more (the lines of his lips easing smoothly, effortlessly, in some pattern that's repeated before and will repeat again. He dances well.

His heartbeat throbs in their joined palms, or maybe it's hers–it sure is quick, so it could be both one after the other, perfectly coordinated, ba-bump ba.

_(he told me 'bout his girl back home_

_waiting patient–)_

He buys her a drink that should be alcohol but tastes just like water–and bitter and too salty.

He tells her about a girl he once knew. It was a long time ago, he says, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't remember me, but. He tells her he's looked around for her, and when she asks her name he smiles and says, I've forgotten.

(She feels sorry for him.)

_(–all alone.)_

They dance again, and again, and again again, until the sound of their steps echo that of their heartbeats, echo the slow, sensual, pounding one two one two one two ba-bump ba-bump ba-bump like a thousand seconds that pass in the time that it takes to change steps and tempo, and the third and fourth and fifth hour to strike.

And he doesn't smile just like he used to at the beginning of the evening, and his water-blue eyes have gone duller, glazed, so she takes his hand and leads their steps on the polished parquet, and dances with him.

Again and again and again.

_(he closed his eyes, all out at sea_

_I think he danced with her not me)_

In the end he kisses her hand, smile slow and head held high and says he had fun, says he wanted to stay a little longer (and so did she, but it's too strange and too close to the water again, so she lets him go).

She wonder if she'll see him again.

She thinks she won't.

_(i think of him now and again_

_i wonder how his journey ends)_

She doesn't hear from him again.

She dances with other men instead, but the rhyme is never perfect again, and the heartbeats never respond to each other quite like they did. She dances and dances, and almost makes believe that the intoxication she feels is due to alcohol-that-never-tastes-quite-like-water-again or to the warm smile of her partners, and never to the frantic staccato that accompany each of her steps on the polished parquet.

Swirling couples on deck, fast-dancing.

_(that stranger with a haunting face_

_here then gone without a trace)_

She remembers the water-blue eyes and the soothing smiles, remembers the deep voice that smothered words and made them sound like slow notes, each calculated, each perfect, tending to perhaps something more than she can offer.

She wonders what that girl he looked for was like; wonders if she's nice; wonders if he found her and dances with her like he danced with her. Wonders if she's still waiting for him, just like she is.

Wonders if she remembers him from so long; from children.

_(beg, borrow or steal_

_i'll find a way to be with my lover next christmas day)_

There is music–fast-beating music like pulsing heartbeats, and quick-time tapping heels like ticking seconds on polished wood. There is music–and water–and the quick aspiration of night and dancing and the rocking of waves. One-music-two and ba-heartbeats-bump and tick-seconds-tock like the same throb-throb-throbbing that reaches out in the veins and pounds through the mind, an alcoholic drought.

She waits for him again, and finds the irony like seasalt on her tongue. She waits and waits and waits and it's almost like a dance all over again, the waiting and anticipating every time she meets blue eyes that are never too much like water to be those she expects.

She doesn't know how long she'll wait still; she figures, one day, she'll grow tired of wishing.

Maybe next year.

_(and i'll run and i'll roam_

_i'll cover the ground)_

Maybe next year.

_(next christmas i'll see you)_

_(-headdesk- I honestly have no idea where that came from. But Shinichi and Ran do have that sort of fated, hopeless lovers quality to them, and to have them desperately remembering, looking for each other and always missing one another, never knowing they did, fits well with that. Plus, it's two in the morning. So there. –munches on cookie–)_

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Paper Trees

(_For__ katie-chan,__ whose prompt was 'She needed him in obvious ways, he was her eyes. He needed her in a different sense, though it was no less vital.' Which is fuckin' awesome, and resulted on my muse doing a mass overdose of cookies and ideas. Eventually we agreed on this, since it's Christmas after all, so have a Christmas-themed fic.)_

('–what does the town looks like?'

'Lightful. The stores are all illuminated. Decorations. Santas and mistletoe and–'

'Something smells good.'

'I think it's that roast in that shop over there. How about buying some for when we come home?')

She feels his fingers, stronger than anything, twining with hers as he talks to that someone else she doesn't know, the cold tips pressing against her knuckles, the thumb that brushes against hers.

She feels his hand, long and lean and slightly bony, curling around her elbow to help her up the step into the carriage, brushing down her forearm to take hers again, leading her over to the seat. (And it's not a carriage after all, but one of those horseless cars, and it lurches forwards with a jerk, sending her flying against the banquette. Kaito curses softly beside her, and knocks on the glass to tell the driver to slow down.)

She feels his voice rather than hears it, the way she does when he blabbers away happily about the town and the lights, the rapid intakes of breath that graduate each sentence, the air rippling in waves to touch her hair.

('Well! Home sweet home. I'll go tell Jii-chan to keep this for dinner. There's a fire in the living-room.'

'… are you coming?'

'… yes, I am.')

They sit on the rug in front of the hearth, and he knows she hears the sparks fizzling with each flame up and down, this twig that stumbles from the log and into cinder before it even touches the ambers. She knows this, and even if he doesn't she must know other things, despite everything he can do and she can't.

She must know it's snowing outside. Plumes of snowflakes hit the window with a soft sound.

He looks over at her, with a laugh on his lips and a remark about the weather, and laugh and remark die away quietly. Because it's snowing behind Aoko, the window like a dark frame around her and the sky the dark blue he's always imagined her eyes to be–and Aoko sits on the rug, oblivious, hair tumbling a little from the knot in drooping locks of black, and he wants to choke out something bitter and inceptively addictive.

She looks up at the sound he hasn't even noticed making and maybe only she heard–looks up, as in, lifts her head and turns her face to his with a slow smile that warms like a lost kitten, and it's flickering and amateurish and so, so genuine it's almost too young to be called a smile, but.

But.

('No, look, you'll cut your finger that way. This way. You run the scissors there – feel the fold–'

'What's the paper's colour?'

'Green.')

They make paper trees later in the evening, after dinner has come and gone and they're back on their rug, and the fire still crackles, but mellower, dying, on the way to ambers. Jii-chan should be coming to revive it a bit with the poker and more logs, but he doesn't, and green peels of paper curl all around them on the carpet.

They make paper trees, Kaito's fingers around Aoko's to show her manually the way the paper must be folded and cut, his sleeve brushing against her wrist and he doesn't know that but she feels it.

His hands are lukewarm, as though gloved.

His sleeve has to it the slow stretch of fabric against skin, like the rustling of a skirt.

The paper trees–she doesn't know how many they've made, but enough to cover the rug and everywhere her hands can reach–are soft to the touch, straying on her lap and on Kaito's, the edges a bit too rough as her fingertips run against them and Kaito pins one to her hair. She feels the tip graze against strands of hair, a cold cheek.

('It's snowing, isn't it?'

'Yes. We'll have a white Christmas this year.'

'…'

'We should go build a snowman tomorrow.'

'That sounds so cliché.'

'Perhaps.'

'I haven't built any snowmen since–')

And, later still, when Aoko has nearly fallen asleep and the fire is dying out to ambers, he holds out his arms and she cuddles into them happily, her hair tickling his face.

It doesn't matter, he thinks, that they are not so much the image of a happy couple or a pair of normal friends–not so much as something between the two and yet immensely different–it doesn't matter if there can be this, this–Aoko against his chest and snowfalls outside the window, the chill air on the glass and the promise of warmth in his arms.

To keep this, he thinks, and his hands tighten possessively around their hold, I would do anything.

('Do you want to go back to your room?'

'H'mmm. No.')

They fall asleep eventually, because they never were anything else than normal and a little too tired, and the paper trees curl around them like strangely-shaped wood shavings, and the fire dies out quietly.

_(I love to pieces the idea of blind!Aoko and Kaito taking care of her and going completely protective and madly in love over her. And my muse has obviously called Kirby all over again, because she has a ton of ideas. –they are SO going to cost us in over-Atlantic phone bills, katie-chan.– I'll probably write more about those, too. x3)_

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Kiss the Girl (or: Stalkerish Tendencies Can Get You A Lover)

_(For __buttefly-chan__, who wanted a fic written around either I Won't Say I'm In Love–Hercules–or Kiss the Girl–Little Mermaid. And FLUFF. The first would've ended up in angst with my kind of thinking, so I stuck to the other. And watched the movie again. ALL. –shudders– luv ya for that, hon.)_

Morning is steam over the brim of her coffee mug and a muffin she picks at aimlessly, tucking out chocolate chips and nibbling on them, the large font of newspapers.

She thinks how annoying it is that she should be going to the office soon and what a bore was her coffee machine all but crashing down this morning and how soon are the holidays and Christmas. In cold morning like these, she doesn't know whether she should be happy or irritated at the silly icy wind that'll greet her as soon as she steps out of the café.

She sighs, folds her newspaper, takes a sip of coffee–too hot, scalds her tongue–and looks out the window absentmindedly. There's almost no one out there–who'd be crazy enough to go out so early, even the café's almost empty except for a few early workers and the garcon.

She ends up corking the plastic lid over her cup again and stands up, gathering her things. As she thanks the café's manager and goes out, she feels a strong stare from behind her, but–as expected–there's no-one there.

_(there you see her_

_sitting there across the way_

_she don't got a lot to say_

_but there's something about her–)_

The second morning she comes breakfast in the same café is three days later in the week. This time too it's nearly-empty, and the garcon grins at her as he takes her order. Coffee, muffin. Newspaper. The air outside is bleak.

This time she feels the stare long before she comes out; it's focused on her like flashlights and she glares at the bold lettering of the headlines, wondering what to do. She sips her coffee, and it's too hot again, and her tongue burns and she bites down on it, thinking it's all she needs.

She looks up as she stands to go. The garcon watches her from the counter, so she smiles vaguely at him, brow furrowed, and almost forgets all about it.

(_and you don't know why,_

_but you're dying to try…_

_–you wanna kiss the girl)_

The third time it's more than obvious, and she's starting to feel uncomfortable. The worst thing is probably that the garcon is making no apologies about it at all–he stares outright at her, smiling just so when she looks up and their gazes catch and all she can see is blue blue blue.

She looks away each time, and he doesn't make any comment when he gathers her money and wishes her a good meal, and leaves her to more scalding-hot coffee and the headlines she isn't even looking at anymore.

When she leaves, she looks in her purse for tip money, and finds she has none. She wonders if he'll feel outraged–or just amused.

_(now's your moment_

_floating in a blue lagoon_

_boy, you better do it soon)_

The fourth time he wishes her a good morning when she comes in and it's one week from Christmas and she really wishes he would stop, but he doesn't.

He brings her a coffee and muffin before she even orders, while she's still looking at the menu wholly for form's sake, because she always takes the same thing–and when she cocks an eyebrow and looks up at him he merely grins and says–You're an habituée now.

(He has a nice voice, she notices, like smooth silk, and ripples to the touch, and his eyes from a closer view are a blue she has never seen before in a Japanese person.) He returns behind the counter and serves other people and smiles and laughs and never makes any mystery of his staring at her every time he gets the chance.

She shakes her head, out of patience, and she really has no time to deal with idiotic waiters with stalkerish tendencies, and she doesn't think of blowing on her coffee before taking a steaming sip.

_(don't be scared_

_you got the mood prepared)_

The fifth time isn't in the café at all, and she nearly crashes her whole computer when he shows up at the office with coffee and muffins for everyone and a bill of order nobody remembers making and how did he even know she was working here?

When her boss comes down and says he doesn't think any order has been made for coffee and muffin, unless Management has decided on Christmas-surprises this year, which is doubtful, he just laughs, says it doesn't matter, it's on the house, and strikes a conversation with three of her colleagues in the next-but-one cubicle, and smiles pointedly at her when she passes on her way to the coffee machine.

After half an hour it's like everyone in the office has known him for years, and she takes a long sip of coffee and nearly does not cringe when her sensitive tongue burns, again.

_(go on and kiss the girl)_

The sixth time is just at the beginning of Christmas break and she has avoided going to the café for over five days now and she catches sight of him out in the street.

He's not wearing his waiter clothes but jeans and a brown jacket, and for a second his eyes flick to the traffic lights over her head, on the other side of the steady car stream that flashes by, before they stray down to hers.

She flushes crimson, and he strays just so that their shoulders brush when they pass each other.

_(you've gotta kiss the girl_

_why don't you kiss the girl)_

The seventh time is December 23rd, and she happens in the café when she's certain two minutes ago she was heading home. It's crowded, and she only takes yet another blistering-hot coffee at the counter before leaving the exact change on the polished surface and leaving.

He runs after her in the street.

"Your scarf," he says, and hands it out to her.

She hesistates–reaches out–and he takes her hand and pulls her to him and kisses her.

_(you gotta kiss the girl_

_go on and kiss the girl)_

The eighth time is December 24th, and in the morning there's someone singing (terribly so) in the kitchen when she wakes and her coffee machine works again, and the coffee is nearly too hot, but not quite.

_(By the way, Disney movies can have a BIG case of innuendo to them sometimes. Look at this–same song– 'Yes, you want her…/Look at her, you know you do/It's possible she wants you too…' says the crab, or whatever it is, in the sparkling blue lagoon, to the prince-guy with the floppy black hair in a teeny boat with the red-eyed, mute mermaid-girl. –and the conversation. 'Uh. Shirley?'I say it's CREEPY.– seriously, what the hell xD)_

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Your Benzine Song

_(For __MissGreenPeac__e, who asked for 'an angst-fluff-Christmas-related story' as 'a good way to remember the joy of the season'. That left pretty much everything to the writer's choice, so I wrote this. It's not exactly fluff, not really angst, but it's definitely Christmas-related. n-n)_

Kaito calls her, of course, five minutes before five, five minutes before Aoko's shift is over, and five minutes after the photocopier has decided to take on a Christmas break and started to spurt out foot after foot of thin slits of paper.

"I'm coming home tonight," he says quickly, as though it's completely normal of him to return to the flat they each pay half the rent of, after a wordless disappearance and a month-long absence.

(Granted, he'd done it before–but never for so long as a week for goodness' sake.)

"Kaito?" she says, harshly, and nearly drops the cell phone. She frees a hand from a reluctant machine–it comes out black with paint ink and she curses inwardly–and switches the phone to her other ear, nestling it between her shoulder and neck. "Do you know what day this is?"

_(look, it's alright tonight)_

"It's Christmas Eve," he says cheerfully. A pink-eared girl smiles shyly at him further down in the wagon, and he gives her such a grin that has her blushing to the top of her forehead. On the other side of the line, Aoko mutters dark threats, though he's not certain whether they're addressed to him or to­–a photocopier?

"It's my flat too," he reminds her, and is answered with a very grim silence. "I pay half the rent?" he says helpfully.

"I know that," she hisses. "Ah­–shit! Damn that bloody thing–so what? you're coming home after a month-long absence and you expect me to play the housewife welcoming you with home-made dango and Christmas decorations? What took you so long coming back anyway?"

"Trouble's all taken care of," he snorts. "I'm not going away anytime soon again. And no. But you're not working tonight, are you? It's five already," he points out.

"I could damn well be," she curses again, and then a clap, and a sound as though she's stuck her finger in her mouth. "Ow. Fuck. Fine. Where are you anyway?"

_(tomorrow we'll begin)_

The copier's lid snaps down sharp on her fingertips and she curses again, and sticks one in her mouth. "Ow," she says, and pops it out to submit it to inspection. "Fuck. Fine. Where are you anyway?"

"Halfway through to the train station," he replies immediately, in this fine-wine smooth voice he uses every time he tries to coax her into doing something. "I'll be over in–forty minutes? Something like that."

She glances over at the clock, then back down at the copier. Damnit, it's Christmas. "I can be home in twenty minutes if I leave work now," she says, reluctantly. "But I haven't done anything–no cake, no meal, no nothing. You'll have to content yourself with what we have at home."

"Which is?"

Nothing much. She might pick up figs on the way home. And rice. "We'll see then. And I won't be the only one cooking," she adds, frowning, and leaves the copier to its fate until the 26th. "You'll have to move your sorry ass."

_(but tonight it's alright this little nameless, perfect-less thing we have)_

He laughs, says, Alright–I will, see you in forty minutes, and hangs up.

The flushed-eared girl down the wagon glances at him once more but he doesn't glance back this time–Aoko's irate voice is still ringing in his ears and he thinks about her in the morning, when her dark hair is messier still than it usually is, when her eyes are never so blue as when they blink sleepily at him from under her bangs.

Lights skim by the passing train, trickling like gold droplets, the nightly town's decorations contrasting against each car–each bright and electric, passing from station to station to station, passengers walking out and in and out again.

He doesn't know quite what this is yet, this little mindless thing they have, but he figures they'll work it out, slowly and carefully and never too quickly.

(_i don't know anything about love at all)_

She leaves the office at fifteen past eight, later than she expected, and then there is one hell of a crowd at the combini. She ends up buying figs and candles and, looking around for something Kaito might like, adds a pack of brightly-wrapped chocolates to her list.

The line to the counter is longer than she thought, too, but she eventually extricates herself from the crowd and surveys the streets as she walks home, hurriedly–it's been forty minutes since Kaito called her, and he could be coming home any minute, but when she opens the door to their shared flat the lights are all out and the window she had opened before leaving for work to let in some fresh air is still ajar.

She gets rid of her coat hastily, drops her scarf and gloves on Kaito's favourite armchair for him to sit on when he comes home, and inspects the refrigerator.

They'll have a fig- and eggnog-flavoured Christmas dinner, and some turkey too, though cold, and this really isn't what anyone would expect on December 24th–but when she lights the candles on the table they cast a soft, warm glow over the walls and furniture, so it's mostly alright.

_(but hold onto me when we both fall down)_

He reaches their street to see a soft, warm golden glow bathing the window of their living-room (Aoko must have lit some candles) and fiddles a minute with his key, trying to find the right one in the right place.

The lights in the elevator are bright and flashing on the mirror, but when he comes out on their floor and the metallic doors swish to a close the corridor is subdued and dark-grey. He fiddles some more with the keys.

When he opens the door there is a yelp from inside, and a soft curse–maybe she dropped something–the figs?–but it's already her voice, much closer and truer than it was on the phone.

"Tadaima," he calls, and closes the door behind him.

_(and i love the thought of coming home to you)_

_(It seems that whatever my story, I always come up with non-obedient facilities. Coffee machines are high into crashing down, of course, 'cause mine is very unhelpful in that respect. And now copiers and refrigerators. –nods–)_

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**The End. And it's still Christmas Eve in my time zone (thankfully). I hope you enjoyed reading them, minna–(and I hope it suited the tastes of all the awesome people who asked for them in the first time) because I sure enjoyed writing 'em. Way to be in the spirit of the season (or whatever xD).**

**Merry Christmas. –hands out some Santa-shaped cookies–**


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